Silence as he thought that over. She could sense him circling her. She gasped as he caught her hair, jerked her head back, his thumb tracing her mouth. "Open wide."
She complied. As she held her mouth open so wide it made her jaw ache, he kept tracing her lips. "One of them has a very large dick. So large it makes a slave cry, even when she has to take it in her mouth. He likes that, likes feeling her tears fall on his cock. He'll strap you on a table, put your head over the edge so his balls will be against your face as he thrusts into your throat. Two of my friends like suckling a slave's nipples while he does that. They'll put their fingers inside you, make you come again. They'll keep you tied down so you can only cry for mercy. What will you do, slave?"
"I will do as my Master wishes." Her throat was dry, heart pounding so hard he had to hear it. "I will please him and make him proud."
"We'll see."
He jerked on her leash, making her follow him. Hearing the vehicle start behind her, she knew Troy and Shale were leaving. It was just the two of them. Maybe. He was so good at this, she was starting to doubt what he'd said, that he would be the only one to touch her tonight. However, if that assertion was true, what he said earlier suggested her Master would be having anal sex with her tonight. As well as every other kind of sex he wanted to have.
She'd never done that. She had the safe word. But, as scary as some of this was, nothing was scary enough to make her want to use that.
He was so close in front of her, she was guided by his body heat. She was brought up onto a deck, taken inside a screened porch. The heat of flame suggested burning candles. It had to be night at this point. "Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to do otherwise."
"Yes, Sergeant Major." She hadn't tried out that title yet and liked how it came off the tongue. She knew Sergeant was an enlisted man's rank, not an officer's. She found that idea fit him perfectly. He was the type of man who preferred to remain directly in charge of those under his command.
The blindfold was removed, the tether snapped off her collar. Her wrists were freed from the thigh cuffs, though he didn't remove either set, indicating they might be used again. She heard him move away from her, the creak as he settled into a chair. The tab of a canned drink popped, so she imagined him drinking a beer while he studied her there, naked, waiting on his will.
"You may lift your gaze."
It reminded her of the provocative scene in True Lies, where Arnold sat in a corner of the hotel room and ordered Jamie Lee Curtis to turn and display herself, undress, dance for him. Just like in that scene, she could see Logan's outline, his features, but nothing specific in the semi-darkness. He sipped the beer, the heat of his gaze like the sun. She'd never imagined doing any of this, but her focus wasn't on the macrocosm, but on every unique detail.
Standing before him naked, silent, not allowed to speak, she couldn't create a shield of words to protect her vulnerability. No, she had to merely stand while he thought whatever he wished of her. The nearby candles, heated by the wick of flame, turned soft and molten under the inexorable burn, the fragrance released by the accelerated temperature. A drop of her own wax, so to speak, rolled down her inner thigh, hot and slick. She could hear her breath, slow and yet erratic, like a languid breeze passing through the branches of a tree.
Setting the beer aside, he rose. He came to her, and the shadows resolved themselves into his forbidding, handsome expression. He unbuckled one thigh cuff, slid it around, refastened it, then he did the same to the other. Then he guided her wrists behind her, crossed them. He'd adjusted the D-rings so they were beneath the fullest point of her buttocks, so now her hands were cuffed behind her, the position and crossing of her wrists pulling her shoulders back to a more severe arch of her back.
He hadn't said she had to look down, so she watched him with hungry eyes. She thought the olive-green coat and crisply ironed slacks, the gold buttons and insignia on the sleeve, the braiding and polished shoes, just added to his look of total command.
As did that intent gaze, that Master's absorption that said he was seeing, thinking everything. Her thoughts might have the randomness of autumn leaves spinning in a storm, but in a way it meshed, that submissive chaos orbiting the Master in the center. He had strategic focus, each point on the line to his goal marked with every action.
She'd vaguely registered her surroundings. The screened porch, the chair where he'd sat watching her, but now she detected a different scent. Heated water. He gripped her elbow, turned her, and she saw the hot tub in the corner, steaming. He had the bubbles turned off.
Unbuttoning his coat, he shrugged out of it, hung it up on a coatrack. Then he loosened his tie, removed it, and rolled up his sleeves. Casual movements she found unbelievably sexy, such that when he bent and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, she wanted to curl her arms around his neck, press her face there, feel the strength of his body against her breasts through the thin shirt. But he had her bound, denying her.
He sat her on one of the benches in the tub, the heated water coming up to her waist. Reaching below the water's surface, he lifted her legs and wrapped two straps around her ankles, spreading and attaching them to the bench across from her, her feet curled over the edge of it. Her thigh straps were hooked to steel clips on the bench she was on, limiting the mobility of her hips. He fastened the chain to her collar to a hook on the side of the hot tub, taking up the slack enough it pulled against the side of her throat, but it was a psychological reminder, not restrictive. Easing her head back against the wide, flat edge behind her, he strapped her forehead down. In this position she was arched back, her breasts thrust up at him, legs spread beneath the water.
Then he turned on the jets.
One hit her on the labia and clit, a direct, solid hit, the force enough to have her gasping and trying to writhe right away.
"You keep yourself positioned right in front of that. No wiggling away."
"Yes, Master," she managed in a desperate rasp.
He loomed above her, watching as the water stimulated her already overwhelmed tissues. She was caught in a permanent state of arousal, almost where she couldn't go higher or lower, just had to stay in this mindless needy mode. Where she'd beg to be fucked, just like he'd said. She kept her eyes latched on his, knowing the plea was in her gaze. He was watching the reactions of her body, those stern, detail-oriented eyes covering every response.
Picking up one of the candles, he brought the flame close enough to her exposed breast that she felt the heat. She quaked but didn't draw back. He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her regardless, and then tipped it over her skin, already glistening from the steam off th
e water.
She gasped again at the heat of the wax, a fast sear of the flesh that turned to liquid heat, rolling over the crinkled ground of her areola and her nipple before beginning to harden. He did it to the other, and she arched further toward him, not away. Setting the candle aside, he placed the blindfold back on her, lacing it more tightly than Troy had, so the darkness was absolute. She doubted any light could filter through, even around the edges.
His hands framed her neck, thumbs resting on her collarbone, then they made a slow upward stroke over her windpipe, to the base of the collar. She raised her chin as his mouth touched hers lightly, tongue tracing her lips. She made a soft plea which he answered by tightening his grip, indicating he expected her to stay utterly still, passive. It made things all the more combustible. The water was stroking her, pummeling her, and she cried softly into his mouth. He didn't respond to that, instead taking his time playing with her lips, while she shut her eyes tight behind the blindfold, the contrast helping her keep her mouth slack, which only intensified the sensations.
"Mine," he murmured, leaving her mouth to speak against her ear. "My devoted slave, my treasure. Your sweet cunt is all mine."
Those were the words she'd told Logan she'd imagined her soldier saying, when all this-- everything he'd brought to life for her tonight--had been merely a masturbation fantasy to keep her company in her lonely bed.
Before tonight, she would have said she'd been fantasizing about a Master who couldn't possibly exist. But those words Logan spoke against her flesh didn't feel like mere imitation to fit her fantasy. It was as if he'd sent them to her dreams long before she met him. Logan was the Master she'd dreamed about, and he was here, incredibly, overwhelmingly real.